I Am Your Follower
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Lestrade's been invited to London's Grand Ball. It's only natural that Mycroft would appear at some point. Mystrade. PG.


**Title: **"I Am Your Follower"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~1,900_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: A little thing to pass up the time. It's an idea that's been playing around in my head for a couple weeks. Finally got around to it.**

**Also, I have some thing with Mystrade and Beethoven. I've used his music twice in my stories (the other is in "In Remembrance", which is Beethoven's String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, so if you read that story with that playing in the background, it sets the mood.)**

**If you're wondering what Tchaikovsky piece plays, it's Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Ballet, specifically Mazurka (Act III, XXIII). You can play that while Mycroft and Lestrade talk for the first time.**

**I'm going to shut up now (I'm totally a nerd for classical music LOL).**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

_You've been cordially invited to London's Grand Ball—_

Lestrade hated this Grand Ball. It only happened once a year, at the same venue, around the same time. Most of the police force was invited (of course, not all of them were, and he usually wished he wouldn't be), but along with that branch, there were other branches of the government: politicians, military, all of them. And every time he arrived at the Grand Ball—it never failed—everyone would turn to stare at him, and he wouldn't know who they were (he didn't doubt their knowledge of him, though). It made things awkward.

Lestrade, also, above all, hated dancing, especially in formal settings. Every year, he never danced with anyone—he didn't know how. So he would find an empty table to sit at, admire everyone else dancing, listen to the people make different speeches here and there, and leave before anyone noticed him actually being there. This night was no exception. He found a table close to the dance floor, and he watched the ladies dance with the men to the sounds of Brahms, Bach, Mozart, everything under the classical sun. He had a few people he knew (Sally, mostly) come up to ask him to dance, but he always declined.

He usually had an excuse. "Sorry, bad foot," he'd say. And off they'd go. No, he didn't mind being there, watching others dance. He liked watching it; he hated doing it. Besides, it was more fun to people watch, he thought. All the ladies were in gorgeous gowns—some a bit more obscure then the others—full of vibrant reds and luxurious blues. The men mainly wore tuxedos; he was the same, although his did not have a tie (most of the men had either skinny black ties or bow-ties). He wished he could unbutton his jacket, but he'd fear one of the politicians would dismiss him.

The bastards.

A new song came—Tchaikovsky. If he hated dancing, he certainly did not hate the music. As he sat there, the chair next to him screeched against the floor. He turned his head and saw a man standing there. A familiar face, he thought. "It only figures you would be hiding here, Greg," the man said. Lestrade chuckled and shook his head.

"Sod off, you bastard," the man sat down.

"Careful with your words, it may cost a job," Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"That means you'd have to do some work there, Mycroft," Mycroft was full of laughter.

It hadn't been too long ago since they had met—maybe a few months or so. Sherlock was in the hospital at the time (poor thing got stabbed in the arm), and while Lestrade had guard duty, Mycroft appeared to take care of his brother. Of course, Lestrade had found it to be quite a shock that Sherlock actually had a brother, but the two found it a bit entertaining to harass the man in the bed, and he couldn't do a thing. But whenever Sherlock was invited to a crime scene, Mycroft was usually there with him, accompanying him to his best intentions.

Lestrade thought nothing of it, although he didn't mind the man's company. He found him rather attractive, not to mention quite dapper (the man knew how to dress! Lestrade was profoundly jealous of his style). Mycroft knew of Lestrade before the hospital visit (funny thing about the government after all) and found him mysterious—Sherlock never told him there was someone like him on the force.

Mycroft reached into his suit pocket (Lestrade found his style impeccable, especially that night—solid black suit, skinny black tie, black vest, black cane) and casually looked down at his pocket watch. "Have you been here for long, Greg?"

Lestrade shook his head—yes, he was rather used to him calling him by his first name. "No, not very, although I'll probably duck out of here soon," Mycroft looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" Lestrade shrugged.

"Well," he quickly said, then he tilted his head off to the side. Mycroft just watched him. "frankly, I'd rather be somewhere else. I don't really like this Ball, since I do not dance," Mycroft slyly put his watch away and grinned.

He knew Lestrade was not taken, so the only other place he'd be would either be "home" or the workplace. "Are you saying you are not enjoying yourself?" Lestrade thought for a moment—so did Mycroft—and then finally shifted in his seat to lean forward onto the table.

"No, the music is quite lovely," he remarked. Mycroft turned to look at the dance floor. So many were twisting and turning, spinning to Tchaikovsky's wondrous piece; Mycroft suddenly rose from his chair. Lestrade raised his own eyebrow. "Have I said the wrong thing to ya?" Mycroft turned and smiled.

"Not at all, Greg. In fact, it's come to my attention that you've never danced," Lestrade blinked.

"Right, I don't dance," he said.

Then, Mycroft held out his hand. It was the first time, really, that anyone actually held out a hand to dance. The piece in the background was soon ending, those on the dance floor finalizing their dances. Mycroft just stood there with his hand there, waiting for it to be taken. Lestrade felt his heart race. Then he held up his hands in defense.

"What I mean is, I don't know how to dance," Mycroft's smile grew wider.

Then, he grabbed Lestrade's hand. Leaning forward, he whispered, "Follow my lead."

Somehow, he was on the dance floor, and Beethoven's 7th Symphony (4th movement, naturally) started to play. Mycroft and Lestrade stood there for a few moments, trying to get situated—well, more like Lestrade trying to figure out how to dance. Mycroft stared down at Lestrade, his stare burning into him; Lestrade had his head down, trying to figure out where to put his feet. People around danced, but made remarks about them: who they were, why were they together, why weren't they dancing.

Lestrade felt he was in a comfortable stance, then held onto Mycroft's hand a little tighter as he positioned his left arm on his shoulder. He wasn't expecting Mycroft to be staring like that, however. He was rather taken aback, almost as if something was burning in those eyes. He felt out of place. "Relax, Greg," Mycroft whispered. Suddenly, he felt relaxed. Lestrade wondered if it was just his voice that made him so loose; he couldn't tell. Mycroft pulled him closer to him with his arm wrapped around his waist (Lestrade had never had another man hold him so).

Suddenly, Mycroft took a step back; Lestrade had not been prepared. He sloppily stepped forward with him, then followed Mycroft's steps after that. Soon, they were marching to and fro, taking gentle steps throughout the song. Each crescendo, each pianissimo, there they were. They did not spin, unlike the others. They did nothing fancy, unlike the others. They just danced. And Lestrade didn't mind a bit of it. He just stared into Mycroft's eyes (Mycroft was doing the opposite) and followed his lead.

They didn't speak a word; others did. Lestrade wouldn't have made any sense whatsoever—he was too caught up in all the things he was experiencing with Mycroft. It was sort of the same with Mycroft, but he felt it to be too awkward to speak during a dance, especially since he was not one with words. Neither one made a move to speak—it was fine.

Those around found them to be quite charming, although they'd fumble every so often because Lestrade would lose his footing (to which they'd share a quick chuckle, smile, then begin again). Some stopped to watch them; others danced with them. It was a grand sight to see there at the Grand Ball, those dancing under the crystallized chandelier, illuminating the golden color surrounding the event. Some admired their dancing, how they connected, how they looked—it was fantastic.

Then the piece began to end. They both knew it had to end at some point, but neither one wanted it to. Neither one was wishing for the violins to stop, for the piano to silence itself. Mycroft gently pulled Lestrade closer to his body, Lestrade hardly noticing. He held onto his partner's hand tighter, Mycroft barely noticed the squeeze. Their fingers intertwined, their grips on the other's tuxedo tightening; they wanted to hold on. Both of them were feeling their legs getting tired, their breathing getting harder, panting, but they were not stopping.

The final notes were upon them. Mycroft quickly stopped before the piece ended; Lestrade raised an eyebrow. As wonderful as it felt to stop, he wondered why. He was going to voice his confusion, but as soon as he thought it, Mycroft pushed one leg forward and started to lean. Lestrade knew what to do, but he wondered if he would look graceful. He leaned back and felt his body dipping with the final notes held. Mycroft's grip around Lestrade did not falter; he held him up. He would not drop him.

Lestrade heard a small applause come from people around, some bowing themselves, others clapping for them specifically. Lestrade then felt himself being lifted up by Mycroft, who was smiling. They were still holding onto each other, not looking away. "That wasn't a terrible experience for you, was it, Greg?" He asked. Lestrade frowned for a moment, thinking, then smirked.

"No, I suppose not," he replied. Mycroft slightly moved; Lestrade felt him brush against his body. A slight pulse went through his body. He swallowed.

The next piece was starting, but they would not dance. Instead, they talked on the dance floor. "If I may suggest," Mycroft began; Lestrade just listened, "it seems as though the Ball is starting to be a bit dull." Lestrade caught the small wink from Mycroft and he smirked.

"I was just feeling the same way. Do you have any idea where we should go?" Mycroft leaned forward, only slightly tilting his head. Lestrade could feel his eyes barely closing, knowing he was being teased by Mycroft.

Mycroft stopped barely inches from Lestrade's face. "Quite a few, actually. Only if you'll allow me to take you there," he whispered. Lestrade felt his breath tickle against his lips (oddly enough, he always found Mycroft's breath quite pleasing; he loved the smell of peppermint).

Lestrade hummed in delight. "I'll follow your lead," he whispered back. Both smiled.

_—We hope you enjoy the Grand Ball!_


End file.
